your absence has gone through me
by possibilist
Summary: 'Your father leads you into a large, quiet, private waiting room. Judy is already there, sitting in the corner, and you imagine that she is numb, that she is at once living in the hyper-real that Quinn thinks about so much; that it will destroy you all.' Santana's POV following the accident. Brittana and Faberry, with definite nerd! Quinntana friendship.


summary: 'Your father leads you into a large, quiet, private waiting room. Judy is already there, sitting in the corner, and you imagine that she is numb, that she is at once living in the hyper-real that Quinn thinks about so much; that it will destroy you all.' santana's pov during the accident. brittana and faberry, with definite nerd!quinntana friendship.

an (1): like, i don't even know which characters to file this under. just know that romantically it's faberry and brittana, with no debate there. it's about quinn and santana though, more than anything i think, so there you go. i've been 'almost done' with this for a long time, and just now discovered it saved on my mac. also, this will solidify my immense lit nerdiness (and probably snobbery) if it wasn't solidified already.

an (2): title from 'separation' by w.s. merwin. listen to 'river love' by angus stone.

...

your absence has gone through me (like thread through a needle)

.

_everything i do is stitched with its colour_

...

You like math—_mathematics_—which is something most people don't know about you, because you fly under the radar in class and no one really pays much attention after that.

But you like it, you like how it can be solved, how it's absolute, how it's even more empirical than science and how it's frustrating and how goddamn rewarding it is to find a solution to a Taylor Series that wasn't assigned for homework.

You tell Rachel, "Face it. Quinn's not coming."

You're kidding—you just like to irk her, ruffle her feathers. You're also completely honest, because Quinn's your best friend.

You tell Rachel, "She probably not answering because she's a law abiding citizen and all that. I'm sure she'll be here soon."

It's one of Quinn's weirdest, most annoying and impractical quirks, you think, how she refuses to use her cell phone when she's driving.

Rachel's phone never goes off and Quinn never shows up. Neither of these things really rock you, surprise you—they're logical, simple functions; _x_s yielding expected _y_s.

What does surprise you, though, is that Rachel tells Finn that they're going to reschedule. Just _tells _him, calmly, without tears or foot-stomping or—thank _Jesus_—song.

He starts to fume; your phone rings; it's your father.

Brittany squeezes your shoulder and then an infinite amount of _y_s are suddenly possible from just one horrific _x_. You comprehend it in the worst way.

You think of Quinn explaining how language is an imperfect tool of communication: _a word can never actually be the object it signifies; objects exist in the _real_, which we can never achieve because doing so would remove the incompleteness of our complete humanness, based on our existence as beings of language itself_; to this you rolled your eyes.

You think of mathematics and how Lucy Quinn Fabray is full of _shit_, and you frantically squeeze yourself together and fight a rocketing sob into Brittany's shoulder.

Rachel doesn't even ask; you're silently appalled that you hadn't known something was wrong.

Brittany takes your keys from your hand and steers you toward the parking lot.

"Santana," she says, a lifeline, the only solution. "Santana."

.

When you get to the hospital, it smells like your father when he comes home. He meets you in the lobby; he's a cardiologist, so he doesn't _really _know much of what's going on.

His refusal to completely meet your eyes causes you to start shaking. You're not angry; you are incredibly, crushingly afraid. It's a fear you've never felt before.

You have imagined what it would be like to die. You have imagined what it would be like for Brittany to die. You have imagined what it would be like for Quinn to die.

You realize: You have _never_ imagined what it would be like for Quinn to die.

Your father leads you into a large, quiet, private waiting room. Judy is already there, sitting in the corner, and you imagine that she is numb, that she is at once living in the _real_ that Quinn thinks about so much; that it will destroy you all.

Brittany sits down next to her; she has strength there will be no way of ever understanding, only acknowledging. She takes Judy's hand with a sure, peaceful smile. From anyone else, right now, it would seem garish, grotesque.

From Brittany it is merely beautiful.

.

Everyone comes into the waiting room. They mill about; they pace; they get coffee. You understand surrealism.

Your legs are numb. Brittany's hand exists because you touch it. Your hand exists because Brittany touches it. The sun sets. The lights never dim.

Quinn was texting. Quinn was texting and driving. Quinn never texted and drove.

Quinn was texting and driving.

Some people go home. You still haven't stopped shaking.

.

Brittany stands and starts walking; you follow without choice.

In the waiting room of the children's ward, it is dark. How Brittany gets in the door, you don't know, but soon you are alone, the only two inside.

There are glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling. You think about counting them, but it seems like too many. You wonder if Quinn is up there now. No one has told you she has died yet, and a part of you thinks—_hopes_—you would feel it.

Another part of you is aware that you would only know that Quinn is dead due to her absence, her _lack_, like a black hole. There would be no way to ever _see _it; its existence would only be proven by the things around it.

Brittany lies down on the floor. She pulls you with her. You put your head against her chest and her heart beats with the number of stars that fill the universe.

You whisper, "Is she going to disappear?"

Brittany is phenomenally wise. This is why you love her.

"There are places so much better than this," she says.

.

Quinn has been in surgery for hours. Quinn is now out of surgery. Quinn is still alive.

You don't get to see her yet; she's critical but stable, in the ICU.

Your father chronicles a long, _long _list of injuries.

She will not be the same; this you know with unwavering immediacy. You don't need proof.

Rachel has stayed the night. You know what this would mean to Quinn. You also know that Quinn reads meaning into _everything_, and it's brave and foolish at the same time.

Rachel hasn't stopped crying.

Brittany falls asleep on your shoulder and Rachel looks at the two of you and seems to take it as some radical reassurance, because soon she's asleep too, eyes closed and hands resting atop a veil balled up to act as a pillow.

It obscures part of her face. She thinks this is her fault.

.

Judy's hand is on your shoulder. Your father is behind her. You wake up and it is early in the morning.

"She's not awake, but you two can see her now for a few minutes," he tells you.

Brittany stands—a simple act, something incredibly complex—and tugs you with her. You see her look at Rachel, who is sitting up and staring at the wall.

You look at Rachel.

"Can she come with us?" Brittany asks.

Rachel's eyes snap to yours.

"Sure," Judy says.

Rachel follows the two of you into the hallway.

"Thank you," she tells Brittany.

Brittany looks at you when she says, "Quinn would want you there."

.

Quinn does not look like Quinn. She looks younger, and she has bruises everywhere, one particular one blooms purple over her left eye and over her glamourous, high cheekbone.

Around her lips is tape, which is holding a clear plastic tube in place.

The ventilator dips and sighs.

Another clear plastic tube is held in place between two of her broken ribs. They barely salvaged her mangled lung; it will need to removed at some vague, possibly imaginary date in the future.

She cannot breathe: the ventilator dips and sighs.

An intraventricular catheter has been inserted on the left side of her head; they have drilled a small hole in her skull and inserted this device into the lateral ventricle of her brain to monitor the intracranial pressure. It is bleeding; it is imploding. They are waiting for this particular disaster to resolve on its own. This is what they hope for. The hair around the little device has been shaved; it's so small that no one would really notice.

It will enrage Quinn. This is comforting.

The ventilator dips and sighs.

An IV line runs into a gauze-covered catheter just below her right collarbone; this is called a central line, and it allows direct access to her superior vena cava. This leads to her heart. Morphine and A positive blood and antibiotics and steroids to prevent swelling in her brain and steroids to prevent swelling in her spinal cord and saline solution and medicine to make sure she doesn't wake up are being pumped into her _heart_.

You are terrified. Brittany kisses Quinn's forehead softly. Rachel chokes back a sob.

The ventilator dips and sighs.

The tiny dimple on her chin is covered in a little dark-pink, raw scrape.

The ventilator dips and sighs.

You sit and grab hold of her warm hand; her nails are the pink of the bridesmaids dress you are still wearing.

The ventilator dips and sighs.

.

Quinn believes that dreams are what real writing is like; your subconscious controls your conscious choices and you just watch it happen.

Quinn believes in poetry. Quinn gets As in AP Calculus BC. Quinn hates empiricism.

If she was awake right now, you would tell her how full of absolute shit she is.

You hope she's dreaming.

.

You have to go home; Quinn's brain bleed has started to resolve, which is an excellent sign. They tell you this. She will wake up soon, but not before the next day.

For some reason, Brittany chooses to watch _The Thin Red Line_ after you two take a bath together.

You lay in bed and sob—literally, break down; your cells are constantly dying—when you hear _If I never meet you in this life, let me feel the lack._

"She's such a fucking bitch," you say. Your words have a drunken lilt to them, from exhaustion and sorrow.

"She really is," Brittany agrees. She cries too. "What a bitch."

"I hate loving someone this much."

Brittany kisses your collarbone. "The paradox."

You try to take deep breaths.

"Quinn taught me what that word means," Brittany says.

.

Quinn blinks. The raw spot on her chin is a dark red scab.

She tries to track you with her eyes. They're full of _terror_. Your father had explained that she's not on as much morphine as they'd like because they need to test her cognitive function without the deluge of pain medication.

Judy is asleep in the chair by her bed.

"Hey," Brittany says. "Santana and I have decided you're a bitch because we love you too much."

Quinn stares at you. "I thought infinity was unavoidable." She cracks a smile and her eyes flutter closed.

.

She has trouble answering _hard _questions, which you only ask her when she wakes you up in the middle of the night asking about Rachel.

Brittany snores.

"How is metonymy related to postmodernism?"

Quinn's brows knit together. From the cracks in her closed window, it's impossible to distinguish streetlamps from the moon. "One thing directly related to another, um, is a significant random, scriptable aspect of a postmodern text, in opposition to a metaphor in a modernist text, which is—it's two things that aren't alike—so that's purposeful, and—" She trails off.

"They have given meaning," you supply. You know this because she's taught you. You know this is graduate level literary analysis.

"We're metonymy," Quinn mumbles.

"We're people," you tell her. "And Rachel didn't get married. She'll be here when you wake up in the morning."

You pinky promise her because she insists.

.

Rachel brings you coffee.

Quinn stares at her feet. Your heart rate rises; her heart rate rises.

"I can't feel them," she says. At first, she sounds _baffled_. She panics. "I can't feel them, Santana. Why can't I feel them?"

You page a nurse; you page doctors.

She said your name because you will not lie.

"I'm sorry," you tell her.

Quinn can't even talk. Silent tears stream down her face.

Brittany sits on the side of her bed and Quinn cries into her shoulder.

The blinds are closed, and they cast shadows over your forms. In a film noir, Quinn would tell you that it symbolizes doom.

.

Brittany sits criss-cross-applesauce on her bed.

"I don't understand," she says. "I need Quinn to explain it to me."

You laugh a little; it's not remotely funny. "I don't think she understands either."

"Why did this happen to her?" Brittany is not panicked. She is merely philosophical.

"I don't know."

"Why does she love Rachel?"

"I don't know."

"Rachel loves her back."

"Yeah."

"Yeah."

"That counts for something."

"That counts for something."

She kisses your cheek. "I love you."

"I love you, too."

.

Quinn is a _bitch _after physical therapy. Before physical therapy. During physical therapy.

_That _frustrated eyebrow makes you smile.

.

"I'm tired of not being able to read books without applying literary theory to them," Quinn confesses while sitting up in bed, holding a mirror with one hand and examining the spot of baby-fine, shot blond hair growing in over a little scar.

"No, you're not."

"I _am_," she says.

"You're just tired," you tell her. "I understand."

"I am tired."

"Your brain tried to destroy itself."

"It's _exhausting _work," she says. "Coach should assign it at practice sometime."

"Good to know you didn't gain any sense of humour."

She smiles indulgently. "You're just jealous."

"Of you? _Never_."

Her smile drops. You didn't mean it but you did, so seriously. "I'm so tired of my shit."

You try not to cry. You scoot closer and take her hand. "I'm tired of it too."

Her laugh rattles damply around her chest.

"I promise I'll be boring after this."

"You'll never be boring," you tell her. "You're the least boring person I know. Mostly because you never stop thinking unnecessarily complicated things, but I enjoy your forays."

She rolls her eyes, tucks your hand closer to her as she rolls slowly onto her side so that's she's facing you. "I have to cope somehow."

"You're brilliant," you tell her.

.

Brittany is dazzling.

You lie beneath real stars this time, although the raindrops of March are cool and your breath hangs as condensation in the air.

"We're going to spend our entire lives together," you tell her. "I don't ever want to exist without you."

"You won't," Brittany says. "I promise."

You believe her; it's impossibly flawed, this argument, so fallible that from anyone else it would be grotesque.

From Brittany, it is merely beautiful.

.

Quinn gets to go home. She is very much alive, and the guest bedroom downstairs has no venetian blinds.

The shadows here are safe.

.

Brittany holds your hand at school. You go over to Quinn's house for dinner; she's getting used to the chair.

Rachel is there, too, without Finn, and Quinn looks a little less sore.

"Have you ever heard of metonymy?" Quinn asks over (vegan) banana splits.

Rachel scrunches her brows together. "Is that a band?"

Brittany practically doubles over with laughter.

.

They fall asleep together that night. Rachel becomes, you realize—startlingly and unexpectedly—the antithesis of Quinn's disappearing; the Other.

She is Quinn's to keep when Rachel sighs into Quinn's collarbone as one of Quinn's legs moves oh-so-slightly against Rachel's.

.

You and Quinn have first period together. It's AP Calculus BC, the only AP class you do _well _in without really having to try. Or cheat off of Quinn.

She misses exactly seventeen days of school.

You have a test the day she returns.

Pencils hover, guess, scratch, erase. Answer.

Quinn bends over her paper. She wanted to take the exam. She was ready.

Her hair falls forward. Her eye is no longer discoloured; her high, glamorous cheekbone is just that, and smooth, unblemished.

Seventeen is a prime number.

You finish first. You know you have not missed a single point.

Quinn's birthday is soon. She will be eighteen.

You love math because it's the one thing you understand better than Quinn does; you win here.

"Rachel seemed happy to see me," she says when you've finished and the bell rings.

"Spoiler alert, Q, but Rachel is always happy to see you."

You don't push her wheelchair; it is an implicit understanding, because this is something Quinn can _do_.

Brittany meets you both out in the hallway and presses a kiss to the top of Quinn's head before she presses a kiss to your lips.

"You'll never believe what we talked about in there!" she says. "Did you know there's actually _books _written about the unimportant things you two are always talking about?"

Quinn smiles. "Are there?"

Brittany says, "Absolutely. And I vow to never _ever _read them. You both make everything way too complicated."

You take her hand and head to lunch. You sit at the same table. You are hungry, primally so; your stomach growls. Quinn nods once, and she trades you your apple for half of her peanut and jelly sandwich.

...

references.

a lot of postmodern psychoanalysis and literary theory? lol. um, derrida, lacan, etc. do normal people ever read these? at your own risk, they're brilliant.


End file.
